The Nightmare lets out a deeper roar, furious and guttural. Then it charges.
"Of course." I rise to my feet, spear clenched in both hands. My heart pounds. I glance at the satchel—the egg is crackling harder now, as if reacting to the Nightmare's presence.
The Nightmare barrels forward, flames streaking across the underbrush in its wake.
—---------------------
"Why can't life just be easy?" I mutter through clenched teeth as I bolt to the right, the ground quaking beneath me.
A split second later, the Nightmare's flaming claws slam down where I'd been standing, searing the soil and sending a cloud of ash and splinters. My grip tightens on the Nadder spear, knuckles white as I duck beneath its swinging tail—too close—the wind brushing my back like a warning.
I roll through the brush, the world tumbling in heat and motion, and come up fast, eyes locked on the creature's wing. One quick thrust. That's all I have time for.
I lunge. The spear punches clean through the leathery membrane of the Nightmare's wing with a wet, tearing crack; the strike hits true.
The dragon shouts—not of pain, but pure, unfiltered rage. Flames ripple down its neck, across its limbs, washing its body in violent orange light as if stoked hotter by fury.
'Shit.'
I yank the spear back, but the beast rears with a deafening screech. I barely have time to slide it into my inventory before it lashes out with one flaming forelimb.
WHAM.
Claws crash into my side. I'm lifted off the ground like a ragdoll and slammed into a tree with a bone-jarring crack.
The bark caves in around me. For a moment, everything blurs.
'Damn.' I cough. My ribs ache, but not as much as I expected. The bark didn't break the skin, and my legs still move.
Vitality stats are doing their job. I push off the trunk and charge.
The Nightmare's chest expands.
My eyes widen.
"MOVE!"
I veer sharply to the right just as the dragon unleashes a torrent of fire from its maw. A wall of flame crashes through the forest, igniting brush and branches alike. The air explodes into heat, the trees around us becoming torches. My only concern?
The satchel. The egg.
It's still slung at my side, and the Nightmare's eyes are locked onto it like a predator trying to snuff out a future rival.
The fire dies down just enough for me to dart behind a tree. My lungs burn, sweat dripping from every pore. Then—CRACK—the Nightmare barrels through it with a swipe, splinters flying.
Its jaws snap forward toward my head.
I slash upward, my sword glinting in the firelight as it bites into the thick, armored scales of the dragon's neck.
Blood spatters—not a lot, but enough to stagger it.
It reels with another roar, this one laced with frustration.
We lock eyes.
I don't hesitate.
I charge, leaping over a burning log. I raise the blade and bring it down at the joint between the wing and body. The blade sinks deeper this time, deeper than expected, cleaving through muscle and connective tissue.
The Nightmare lets out a howl and twists, its wings jerking away mid-strike. The force flings me sideways, but I react in time, twisting midair, bracing myself.
I land hard, knees bending, boots digging into the dirt.
My fingers burn. My chest heaves.
The Nightmare turns, flame swirling around its form again.
'Let's see what these stats can do.'
I suck in a breath and drop into a stance, sword hanging at my side, shoulders square. The world narrows until there's only heat and instinct. We stare each other down, seconds stretching like steel wire.
Then we both charge.
Flames crackle along its jaws as it lunges.
I leap forward.
Its mouth opens, fangs wide.
At the last moment, I ditch the sword—summoning the spear mid-motion—and ram it up, straight into the underside of its jaw.
CRUNCH.
The shaft splinters in my grip, but the Nadder spike punches through the soft tissue beneath the tongue, out the bottom of its jaw. It lets out a garbled, enraged bellow, rearing back and shaking its head violently.
Pain clouds its eyes.
I dive under a retaliatory swipe, the flaming claws singe the air above me as I duck. The heat licks at my skin—too close—but I press on, rolling beneath the beast's heaving belly.
I call the sword back to my hand.
One more strike.
I rise just in time and slam the blade into the base of the opposite wing, driving it deep.
A spray of hot blood erupts as the blade digs further than before. The Nightmare screeches, stumbling backward as it twists—and nearly headbutts me.
'Come on… we're getting somewhere.'
I grit my teeth as the Monstrous Nightmare roars in pain, blood pouring from the gashes I've already carved into its wings. It's stumbling, slower—but far from finished. Fire clings to its hide like a second skin. Every breath it takes radiates heat like a furnace bellows.
My muscles ache. My hands tremble. But I'm not done.
'Screw it. Time to test this idea.'
I fling caution out the window and yank open my inventory mid-sprint. With a mental command, I activate the container I've been keeping on standby—pressurized water, stored from a waterfall.
The moment I release it, a violent hiss of steam explodes from the Nightmare, dousing the surrounding area in scalding fog. The sudden burst crashes into the Nightmare's face. It rears back, snarling and blinking against the obscuring mist.
Now.
I dash through the cloud, appearing right before its eyes—blades of steam still curling around my body.
I lunge. The sword drives deep. Straight into the upper jaw, right below the eye.
The beast shrieks—rage, agony, betrayal—but it's not dead. Not yet.
It's claw swats me away, a blinding flash of heat and muscle crashing into my side. My body rockets through the air and slams into a tree, bark shattering and flaking around me like snow.
I hit the ground hard, my lungs gasping for air as the pain pulses through my ribs and spine.
'Goddamnit—fuck this sword.' I throw the weapon back into my inventory, breathing ragged and scorched. My tunic clings to my skin, sweat and soot mingling with streaks of blood.
But I'm still alive.
And the dragon isn't finished yet.
The Nightmare roars again, fire building in its chest—a deep, guttural growl like a storm rolling across the land.
I run. Legs burning, chest heaving.
It exhales—
A tidal wave of fire.
I dive and roll, barely escaping the core of the blast. Flames lick my arm and shoulder, the edge of my tunic catching fire.
I drop, patting and slapping the flames away with one hand while calling the sword back into my grip with the other. The pain in my limbs screams—but it's nothing compared to what's coming next.
'Screw it, we're going full insanity now.'
I charge.
I leap.
And I landed on top of it.
The Nightmare's back is blazing. My boots sizzle on contact. The hide burns through my pants in seconds. But I stay.
"SHIT!" I scream aloud, pain coursing through every nerve as I climb up toward its neck. The dragon roars, thrashing wildly, trying to shake me loose, but I clamp down, gripping the base of its horns, muscles screaming in protest as I brace my legs tight against the base of its skull.
It rears up. I pull back harder. My eyes blur with heat. My skin starts to blister. The scent of scorched flesh—my own—floods my nose.
I don't let go.
I won't.
Not now.
With a final cry of effort, I call the sword again—its hilt solid in my palm—and I drive it down with every ounce of strength I have left.
Straight into the back of its head.
The blade punches deep—bone, brainstem, fire and fury—and the Monstrous Nightmare lets out one last, choked roar before its whole body convulses, legs kicking out as flames burst from its mouth in one last defiant jet.
Then it collapses, slamming into the forest floor in a spray of burning leaves and ash.
Still aflame.
Still dangerous.
But dead.
I tumble off its back, rolling in dirt and debris, coughing violently as smoke and heat choke the air around me.
"Inventory—now."
A second burst of pressurized water erupts from the storage, drenching me and the Nightmare's corpse. The hiss of steam fills the forest, and white plumes rise into the air as the flames are extinguished. The flames leave behind scorched flesh, cracked scales, and a battlefield thick with mist.
The water burns—hot enough to sting already raw skin—but finally, the heat begins to fade.
I fall to my knees, chest heaving, skin blistered, arms shaking from the adrenaline crash.
'I… did it.'
The thought echoes in my head as I suck in a ragged breath, each inhale cutting like broken glass through my lungs. The cold mountain air is sharp, too sharp, mixing with the sting of smoke still clinging to the inside of my throat.
I glance down.
The satchel at my side shifts. The Skywraith egg—usually crackling with energy—is quieter now, its shell dimmer, its static subdued. A soft pulse of violet light hums faintly beneath its black surface, but it's weaker than before.
'No rest for the wicked.'
I sit up—too fast.
A jolt of white-hot pain screams down my back, flaring in my ribs and legs. I grunt and clench my teeth, gripping the dirt beneath me until the wave passes.
'I ain't going down easy.'
I force myself to my feet, shaking and unsteady. My body feels like it's been through a forge. My skin is tight, raw, still glowing faintly red from the burns. I plant my hand on the smoldering corpse of the Monstrous Nightmare. Its scales are still hot to the touch—metallic and cracked from where my sword bit deepest.
With a hiss, its weight vanishes into my inventory.
All that remains is the scorched forest around me: blackened trees, smoking undergrowth, and a sky growing darker by the minute. Clouds churn above like bruises, rolling in fast from the north.
I roll my shoulders—flinching at the pain—and start walking again, uphill this time. The mountain's peak looms above, the wind howling around me. The egg at my side lets off a small, sudden jolt—a snap of static that dances through the leather of the satchel and stings my hip.
I wince.
'Yeah, yeah, I get it—you want up there.'
—---------------------
By the time I reach the summit, I'm barely standing.
"Finally…" I wheeze, my voice hoarse as I fall to my knees atop the exposed plateau.
The wind rips at my clothes, dragging at my torn tunic, and I feel rain sting across my cheeks. The world stretches out around me, raw and vast—storm clouds devouring the horizon like a coming tide. Below, the forest burns no longer. The fire has died with the Nightmare. Smoke still rises in thin ribbons, but the mountain has gone silent again.
I unfasten the satchel and gently lift the egg out.
Its surface is buzzing again, now more active than before, crackling with arcs of light that dance across its shell. As I cradle it in both hands, it sends another sharp jolt through my fingers. I hiss through my teeth.
"I can see a storm coming," I mutter with a dry chuckle, eyes scanning the sky. "Hope that's what you're waiting for."
The clouds above are thickening. Lightning flickers between their bellies. Thunder murmurs across the sky like a distant drum.
'Let's see if you hatch.'
I set the egg beside me and start gathering stones and branches, hands shaking as I build a small circle. My fingers are clumsy, burned, raw—but the routine is grounding. Flint. Dry bark. Focus.
The fire starts small. A thin flame, struggling against the wind. But it's warm. And for a moment, that's all I care about. I sit cross-legged beside it, the egg nestled in my lap once more. It shocks me with every breath I take, little bursts like jolts of caffeine, keeping me just conscious through the haze of pain.
The breeze carries the sharp scent of ozone now. The storm is near—almost on top of us.
I glance down at the egg.
Its glow is pulsing faster. The streaks of purple and cyan crackle with rising energy, like veins of lightning barely restrained. It thrums against my hands like a living thing—agitated, eager.
'Damn Nightmare…' I think as I glance down at my burned forearms, the red skin taut and blistered where my tunic was charred away. My legs aren't much better—still throbbing from clinging to a dragon engulfed in flames.
But I hold on.
Because now I'm not just surviving.
I'm waiting for something bigger.
"You better be worth it," I mutter through clenched teeth, rain now pelting my face in sharp, cold needles. The fire hisses and sputters. A flash of lightning splits the sky above, and a moment later, a thunderclap shakes the mountain beneath me.
The egg jerks violently in my lap—flaring with energy. The shell glows brighter now, veins of electric color arcing around it in erratic pulses. The static jumps from the egg to my chest, crawling across my skin and sinking into my muscles like hooks.
I lean over it, rain drenching my back, my hair plastered to my face.
The egg screams—not with a sound, but with a surge of wild, ecstatic energy.
Lightning splits the sky, the flash white-hot and blinding, followed by a thunderclap so loud it shakes the mountain beneath me. My ears ring, but strangely, it's not painful—it's comforting, almost melodic in its violence.
The Skywraith egg shudders in my lap, trembling with life and joy, arcs of lightning crackling madly across its surface. The black, scale-like shell begins to fracture, veins of light splitting across it like spiderwebs under glass. Each crack pulses with growing power.
I stare, breath held.
'How lucky I am…' The thought forms slowly, reverently. 'A thunderstorm today, of all days. As if Thor himself looked down and chose to bless me.'
I lift my head.
Cold rain pelts my face, streaming down through my hair, soaking into every burn and scrape. The fire in my flesh, the pain of the fight, dulls beneath the chill—washed away by the storm.
I close my eyes and exhale slowly, letting the tension melt.
Another bolt of lightning rips through the sky.
And the egg explodes.
A blinding detonation of light and energy erupts around me as the shell bursts apart, electricity surging outward in a violent halo. Shards scatter into the dirt like broken obsidian, glowing faintly before fading into steam.
And then—without hesitation—lightning strikes again.
Directly. Onto us.
The bolt hits like divine judgment. But there is no pain.
No scream.
No convulsion.
Only stillness.
I breathe in as it passes through me, and instead of burning, it eases. The energy hums through my veins like a heartbeat, my body no longer resisting it, but embracing it.
In my lap, where the egg once sat, a creature now rests—soaking in the storm.
It lets out a cry—not a scream, not a hiss, but a roar of life, high-pitched and crackling like a broken radio made of thunder.
A Skywraith.
My fingers twitch, still feeling the tingling charge along my skin, and I open my eyes.
Where there was once a deep brown, there is now sky blue, like storm-lit oceans reflecting the clouds above. I look down.
And I understand.
The hatchling stares up at me, its body rippling with residual energy. Along its back, metallic ridges twitch and crackle, arcs of lightning dancing between each spine. Its scales are a sleek, dark mix of black and purple, like thunderclouds painted in twilight. Behind its eyes, a sharp white streak cuts back along its head—like an orca's mask, stark and ghostly.
And yet it feels no longer alien to me.
It feels like mine.
I whisper the truth aloud, barely aware of my own voice. "The true unholy offspring of lightning and death… the child of a Skrill and a Night Fury."
[Quest: Hatch the Egg]
Climb the tallest mountain on the island.
Rewards: +20 Gacha Tickets, +5 Dexterity, Skywraith Saddle
[Achievement: Thor's Blessing]
Be struck by lightning while hatching a Skywraith.
Rewards: +50 Gacha Tickets, Electricity Immunity, Lightning's Sigil
I chuckle—dry at first, then warm. My eyes rise to the sky again, to the rolling clouds and flashing heavens above. The storm no longer rages. It sings.
The Skywraith nestles against my chest, not resisting—calmed by the storm as much as I am. Every thunderclap is like a lullaby. Every arc of lightning… a welcome home.
I glance down at my arms—where angry red burns once throbbed, smooth skin now rests, cool and unblemished. The pain is gone. As if the lightning didn't hurt, but healed.
"Thank you, Thor." The words come with a smile—small, tired, genuine—as I close my eyes, letting the sound of thunder roll through me like a heartbeat I've always had… but never noticed.
—---------------------
"Stormbolt, to the right!" I shout over the wind, my voice nearly lost in the roar of the skies.
Without hesitation, Stormbolt banks sharply, slicing through the air like a living thunderbolt. The sky bends around us—wind whistling against my ears, the sea far below turning into a churning blur of dark waves and gray mist. Lightning dances along the ridges of Stormbolt's back, crackling in his wake as we dive toward our target.
The dragon trapper ship appears below—hulking, steel-lined, bristling with nets and spears. Stormbolt angles his body into a dive, wings tucked close, and slams down onto the deck with a bone-jarring crack, electricity arcing across the wooden planks.
I dismount smoothly, boots striking the deck as I scan the startled faces of the dragon hunters, each frozen mid-motion, stunned by the black-scaled, storm-charged predator glaring down at them.
"So," I say, stepping forward as Stormbolt's tail flicks with a faint hiss of ozone, "who do you guys work for?"
They don't answer.
One hunter nocks an arrow.
He shouldn't have.
A dull thunk echoes across the deck as a bolt from my hidden crossbow buries itself in his forehead. He drops instantly, his body crumpling like a sack of wet leather.
The rest yell—panic, rage, bravado—and charge.
They don't get far.
Stormbolt lunges forward, maw open, and with a swift, brutal snap, bites the nearest man in half. A flash of light, a sizzling crackle of his spines—just enough to fry the next one's weapon mid-swing.
I raise an eyebrow. "Feeling hungry, huh?"
Stormbolt glances back at me with glowing eyes, then lets out a low, satisfied burp, followed by a playful trill—like a chuckle laced with static.
"Thought so."
I crouch by the body of the crossbow victim and dig through his belt. Keys jingle into my hand.
"Alright, take a lap, buddy. Let me handle the cages."
Stormbolt rumbles in reply and kicks off the deck, wings thundering as he vanishes into the sky with a single gust of wind.
'He's massive for a one-year-old…' I think, sliding the keys into a pouch. 'Must be all that lightning and fresh meat.'
I reload my wrist crossbow with a swift, practiced motion—a Gronckle iron bolt clicking into place—and then draw my Gronckle-forged axe from inventory. Its weight is familiar. Heavy. Balanced. Deadly.
I head below deck.
'Why the hell do Vikings have a below deck?' The thought comes as I duck under a low beam and descend the narrow stairwell, eyes adjusting to the flickering torchlight.
'No lower decks, no horns on helmets—dragons, sure, but the historical inconsistencies are killing me…' I smirk. 'Then again, I'm riding a lightning dragon, so—fair.'
I round the corner and slam my axe into the first unlucky bastard's head, the blade burying itself into his skull with a wet crunch. Another trapper shouts and rushes me, only to catch my fist in the jaw. The blow dislocates it with a sickening crack and sends him crashing into a steel wall meant to cage dragons.
He slumps.
'Stats in the sixties hit different.' I roll my shoulder and stretch my neck, heat still buzzing beneath my skin from the lightning storm earlier. 'Probably could wrestle a Monstrous Nightmare and win. Stoick who?'
Three more trappers charge down the corridor, shouting and swinging axes. I don't hesitate.
I reach into my belt and toss two Zippleback gas bombs down the hall. They bounce once—twice—before releasing a thick cloud of green fog that swallows them whole.
I strike flint to steel.
Click. Ignition.
The corridor erupts in a massive blast of fire, the smoke and pressure wave kicking back against me as I brace against the wall. Screams are short-lived.
'That should've done it.' I chuckle to myself as I move down the hall, the metal bulkheads now scorched and blackened.
I make my way to the cages, unlocking them one by one. Dragons—injured, angry, frightened—pour out, clawing their way up the stairs and flinging themselves into the open sky. I count each one like inventory, memorizing scale patterns, horn shapes. Most are common breeds, but a few rarer ones slip through. No time to catalogue them all.
As the last one bounds free, I kick open the storage room at the rear. It's empty—just as I expected. No dragon root. No rare supplies. Nothing but scorched wood and the half-melted body of the guy I blew up earlier.
"Damn. A bust."
I sigh, turning around. With a whistle, I summon Stormbolt.
He arrives like a meteor, crashing into the deck with a thunderous flap of wings, his landing rattling the whole ship. I swing into the saddle with practiced ease.
I cast one last glance at the trapper ship—and store it in my inventory, every plank and iron bolt vanishing in a blink.
"Gotta say, bud… today wasn't half bad." I lean back against Stormbolt's saddle, arms folded as the wind rushes past—cold, clean, and somehow gentle against my scorched tunic. The sky's open, endless, a streak of gold tracing the horizon as dusk begins to stir. My inventory flickers open in my peripheral vision.
Three ships. One chest of jewels. And no survivors.
I smirk.
"I wonder how hard we've rattled the dragon hunters this past month…" They still have no idea who we are or why this ghost of the storm keeps tearing their fleets apart. Just shadows, silence, and lightning in the distance.
The chuckle that escapes me is low and satisfied.
I shift upright, my balance steady even at these speeds. Stats in the sixties help—not just with strength and reaction time, but with clarity, perception. I can see more now. Feel more.
The wind isn't just cold—it wraps around me like an old friend.
Below, the ocean rolls endlessly, dark and alive. A Scauldron breaches, scattering a school of fish like silver rain across the waves, its great jaws snapping playfully before it vanishes again.
"We should probably head to Berk soon," I murmur, voice tinged with hesitation. "It's about that time."
Stormbolt's body pulses beneath me in reply—an electric twitch races up his spine and shocks into mine. It doesn't hurt. It hasn't in a long time. Not since Thor's blessing.
It tickles.
"Was that a no, or did I just get too moody for you?"
He answers with another playful zap, followed by a deep trill that rattles his ribs. Then—he dives.
Hard.
"Hey—HEY!" I scramble, barely clipping the harness in time as we plummet—wind screaming past us, my heart lurching in my chest. The world tilts. The ocean races up to meet us.
"Rude, Stormbolt!"
But I'm laughing now—truly laughing—as he pulls up at the last second, wings slicing through the spray. We rocket forward just above the surface, waves parting beneath us as he glides, skimming the water like a living bolt of black lightning.
"You're lucky you're still young!" I shout over the wind, ruffling the back of his neck. He trills again—unapologetic.
The island comes into view ahead—home. The jagged silhouette of the mountain stands tall in the center, crowned in the storm that birthed him.
We rise above the ridge, wings wide and powerful, the cave mouth just ahead. The wind stirs the old path leading into it, and for a moment, the mountain seems to recognize us.
"Home sweet home."
We land with a controlled impact—Stormbolt kicking up dust and pebbles as his talons scrape against the stone. I unclip and slide off, boots hitting the cool rock. Behind me, he follows inside, his frame filling the entrance for a moment before shrinking into the cave's embrace.
The interior has changed.
What was once a rough, scorched cavern is now shaped with care. Stone brick walls line the sides, cleanly set and reinforced, giving the room the air of a rustic fortress. The fire pit burns low in the center. Warmth and life flicker everywhere.
No sign of the Gronckles.
But then—laughter.
Soft at first, echoing deeper within the mountain. Familiar.
"Sounds like Ragnar and Runa are awake."
I unfasten my helmet and shake out my hair. Stray braids fall loose, some still tied with beads. My beard has filled in, bristling slightly from the wind, now thick enough to fit in with the wildest of warriors.
"Erik! You're back!" Ragnar's voice bounces off the walls as he rounds the corner, half-grinning and half-bouncing with his usual energy. Runa follows behind, quieter, waving in that reserved way of hers.
"What'd you find today?" he asks, already abandoning his sister to stalk closer.
I shrug. "Dragon hunters. Some treasure. The usual body count."
Ragnar's face falls into deadpan. "Boring."
I toss my helmet into my inventory with a laugh, then settle beside the fire, poking at the embers with a stick.
'Still can't believe they've just accepted my powers like it's nothing.' They washed ashore months ago—refugees from fate, like me. And they made this place feel like more than just a base.
"How've things been while I was out?"
"Same as always," Ragnar grumbles, sitting beside me. "Runa's been playing with Muzzlemaw. I've been trying to train Duskrattle."
I snort. "Well, to be fair, they are hatchlings. Especially considering yours is a Skrill–Deathsong hybrid."
Ragnar opens his mouth to protest— SMACK. Runa slaps the back of his head without looking up from feeding Muzzlemaw.
I lean back, grinning. "You did scream 'dibs' the second I said Thunderous Lullaby egg."
Ragnar smirks. "I did no such thing."
I raise my hands. "Sure, buddy."
I glance at Runa. "Any progress with our favorite whispering-death–Nightfury hybrid?"
She wobbles her hand side to side in a so-so gesture.
"Fair enough."
A rumble shakes the cave as Muzzlemaw and Duskrattle emerge from deeper in the lair—Muzzlemaw coiling low beside Runa, while Duskrattle stomps toward Ragnar with stubby pride.
"They've definitely bonded to you two." I smile, warm and real, as I glance back to Stormbolt.
He's play-wrestling with Pebble, the youngest Gronckle, who snaps playfully at his horns. Craggletooth watches like a smug grandparent, and Grubble just rolls over and goes back to sleep—unbothered by the chaos.
I watch them all, a quiet hum of contentment buzzing in my chest.
'It really has gotten eventful around here.' Three Gronckles. Two orphaned siblings. Three hybrid dragons that should not exist. All living together like some strange extended clan.
'Honestly… I could get used to this.'
With a smile, I pull out a strip of dried meat and toss some to Runa and Ragnar. Then a few salted cuts for the dragons—except the Gronckles, of course. Stormbolt snatches his mid-air and sparks happily.
"So… are we doing anything today, or is it just another glorious day of lounging around doing nothing?" Ragnar asks, his tone straddling somewhere between bored sarcasm and barely concealed mischief.
Across from him, Runa simply rolls her eyes, not bothering to dignify him with a response. She continues to gently stroke Muzzlemaw's chin—her touch practiced and delicate, like she's done it a hundred times. The dragon melts under her fingers, a soft growl vibrating through his coiled body, eyes half-lidded in contentment.
I scratch at my chin, feeling a bit of stubble beneath my fingertips. "Dunno yet. Might prep a couple of those dragons I hunted last week… maybe cook up a few new smoke bombs."
Ragnar lets out a dramatic groan and flops backward like he's been struck. "That's boring, Erik. We should do something fun—go out on a proper ride. Let these guys stretch their wings." He pats Duskrattle, who immediately flicks his head and amber-spits a thick glob of mucus into Ragnar's hair.
Ragnar freezes. His grin melts.
Duskrattle lets out a weird chirping cough-snort, unmistakably dragon laughter.
I chuckle. "They can fly. Just not with you guys. Yet." I glance toward Runa. "If anyone's getting off the ground first, it's her."
Runa gives a small, satisfied thumbs-up without breaking eye contact with Muzzlemaw. Ragnar, on the other hand, stares up at the stone ceiling like he's hoping for divine intervention. Then he throws his fist toward the sky in mock fury.
"You only say that because I'd be better than you." He puffs out his chest with that smug grin of his—the kind that makes you want to throw a fish at his face.
I open my Book of Dragons, its edges now filled with scrawled notes and additions in my own handwriting. From the corner of my eye, my Status Screen flickers to life—floating faintly, translucent.
"Hey! Don't ignore me with your weird freaky magic!" Ragnar twirls his finger like he's casting a spell, his face twisted in mock horror.
Runa laughs softly behind her hand, still petting Muzzlemaw with one hand and scratching behind his jawline with the other. The dragon hums like a contented cat.
"Say something intelligent, and I'll pay attention." I don't even look up. Just smirk.
Ragnar opens his mouth to retort, then pauses.
And closes it again.
"Thought so."
I flip a page.
"Anyway, we'll do our first real flight practice tomorrow."
That gets their attention.
Ragnar lights up, his eyes going wide and sparkling with anticipation. Runa perks up too—subtle, but telling. Muzzlemaw seems to feel her shift and lets out a low trill, raising his head.
"But for now," I stretch as I stand, "we get some rest. Big day tomorrow."
Ragnar groans and flops back again. Runa smiles and gives a little nod. I wave them off with a grin and start walking down the hall, toward the lab I carved out with Gronckle help months ago.
Stormbolt pads after me for a moment but lets out a low yawn and curls up beside Pebble, who tries to sneak a paw-slap onto his nose. Craggletooth watches like a judgmental old man, and Grubble barely lifts his head before flopping back down with a sleepy snort.
The wooden door to the lab creaks slightly as I shut it behind me. Crafted with thick timber and reinforced iron hinges, it's more than just a workspace—it's where I learned to make something of myself after Stormbolt hatched.
'Little terrorist used to barge in while I was butchering Nadder carcasses.'
I chuckle at the memory and lean against the door, eyes drifting over the room.
A makeshift forge glows softly in one corner. Racks of bones, preserved hides, and tools line the walls. Alchemical ingredients, dragon-root samples, and potion bottles clink gently from their pegs.
My Status screen pulses again. I glance at it, satisfied.
[Status]
Name: Erik
Race: Human
Gacha Tickets: 130
Strength: 60
Vitality: 65
Intelligence: 54
Dexterity: 63
'You love to see it.' At this point, I've got the strength of six well-trained men, the reflexes to snatch a crossbow bolt mid-flight, and a body so tough it'd take poison weeks just to make me sneeze.
Still, my eyes drift to the Gacha interface.
'I need to save up.' But the thought fades as quickly as it forms.
My lips twitch. 'But the urge to roll… it's like gambling with fate. Just one more pull.'
I lick my lips slightly and tap my fingers against the edge of the workbench.
'Another hybrid dragon, maybe? Or something worse?'
I back away from the interface and focus instead on the World Ticket counter in the corner of the screen. Three.
I sigh.
'I could leave for a few months—but the world would keep moving. No stasis unless I've triggered story flags.'
And I hadn't. Hiccup hasn't bonded with Toothless. The Red Death still lurks, slumbering in her hellish hive.
'If not for that, I'd hop into Cyberpunk right now—grab a Sandevistan, some implants, become lightning in human form.'
The idea sends a chill up my spine.
'Or Witcher. I could survive the Trials. Get the mutations. Add dragon-based mutagens and… damn. That power curve would be unreal.'
I stare at the console for a long moment.
And then sigh again, deeper this time.
"But no… not yet."
Tomorrow, there'll be flying lessons.
Soon after, Berk.
And when the time is right—when the Red Death rises—that's when I'll step into the story.
—---------------------
"Alright, saddle up and strap in tight." My voice cuts clean through the cool morning air as I stand beside Stormbolt, checking his saddle rigging one last time. Runa and Ragnar move quickly—no hesitation today. Muzzlemaw stands patiently for Runa, crouched slightly to make it easier for her to mount, while Duskrattle... less so.
"Ragnar, be firm but calm. You're not just riding him, you're working with him."
Ragnar grimaces as Duskrattle flicks his tail, half-smirking as he throws his leg over the saddle. "He's got the personality of a cat with wings."
"Which means he fits you perfectly." I say with a smirk as I swing into Stormbolt's saddle and tighten the strap across my chest. "Now listen. Your job isn't to micromanage—you're not flying for them. You guide, spot, and adapt. They fly. You feel."
They both nod—Runa with calm confidence, Ragnar with his usual, restless twitch of excitement.
"No tricks today. Just get used to the movement, the wind, and each other."
I pat Stormbolt's neck.
He grunts, coils his powerful legs—and lifts off.
Not high. Just a hover. A few feet above the ground, letting the air catch his wings, muscles coiling and adjusting to the lift.
A beat later, Muzzlemaw lifts as well—silent, smooth, and almost eerie in how coordinated he and Runa already are. Her hands stay steady on the reins, body swaying naturally with the rhythm of the flight.
Duskrattle takes a little more convincing. Ragnar leans forward, muttering something that clearly doesn't impress the hybrid, who puffs a small cloud of amber smoke in his face. But eventually, Duskrattle grudgingly joins us in the air with a heavy beat of his wings and a grunt that's more groan than growl.
'Still funny how that worked out,' I muse as we begin to circle the island in wide, lazy loops. 'Runa, the quiet one, ends up with a Whispering Death–Nightfury hybrid. Ragnar, the loudmouth, gets a Deathsong–Skrill who hates being told what to do.'
Stormbolt hums beneath me, the stormlight in his spines glowing faintly in the rising sun.
We keep the pace slow—me at the lead, both hybrids trailing behind in an easy formation. Muzzlemaw flies with controlled precision, low to the ground with wings held tight. Duskrattle's more erratic—jerking slightly at turns, grumbling through every correction Ragnar makes.
But they're learning. Fast.
After the third lap, I speak again.
"This is how we'll train for the next few days. Build the basics. Once you're both synced with your dragons, we'll move on to advanced maneuvers. Burrowing drills for Runa and Muzzlemaw. Lure-and-bait tactics for Ragnar and Duskrattle."
For once, Ragnar doesn't complain.
No snide remark. No cocky grin.
He just nods, focused, his posture straightening in the saddle. I don't miss the way his hand adjusts the reins slightly or the way Duskrattle finally stops jerking his wings.
'Good. He's finally taking this seriously.'
But beneath the satisfaction, a quieter thought brews.
'I hope I can bring them with me… or at least leave them something worth staying for.'
Stormbolt twitches under me. A flicker of electricity snaps up his spine and zaps me lightly across my back.
I blink—and smirk.
"Alright, alright. I'm done brooding."
We descend slowly. The cave comes into view, perched halfway up the mountain like a fortress. As we land, I dismount with practiced ease, boots crunching against packed gravel and stone. Behind me, Muzzlemaw touches down with silent grace while Duskrattle stumbles a bit before managing a somewhat graceful landing.
Ragnar and Runa dismount—Ragnar already talking, Runa replying with her usual expressive gestures. Their dragons follow close, almost like shadows. Family, in their own strange way.
I watch them for a moment—this mismatched, ridiculous, perfect little crew—and sigh.
'It can't be easy being mute in the Viking Age…' But Runa thrives despite it. Her voice is in her hands. Her eyes. The dragons understand her better than most people probably ever could.
"You two figure out what else you want to work on tomorrow—whether it's drills or bonding. Me and Stormbolt are taking a trip."
They both look at me, surprised.
"Where?" Ragnar asks.
I climb back onto Stormbolt's saddle and flash them a sideways smile. "To Berk. It's time I find out exactly how close we are to their timeline."
Stormbolt tenses beneath me—wings unfurling, legs flexing.
I tap twice on his neck.
He launches skyward like a shot.
Wind slams into me, but I'm already locked in. The clouds part as we climb—up, up, through veils of white mist into open sky, the air crisp and sharp.
Below us, the island fades into the sea.
"To Berk, Stormbolt." My voice is soft. "Let's see how far we've come."
My compass rattles uselessly at my belt—the needle spinning aimlessly under the interference from Stormbolt's lightning-charged spines.
—---------------------
{A/N Hey everyone—hope you enjoyed this chapter! I also want to give a quick shoutout to those of you who've stuck around through the build-up because yeah… timeskip. It had to happen.
Not because I wanted to rush things, but because I didn't want to drag the story into a slow crawl. The pacing needed to breathe, and sometimes, pushing through every single day just doesn't serve the narrative—or you guys. So now we're here: with the storm gaining momentum, the foundation set, and the sky wide open.
You've probably noticed I introduced a couple of new characters—Ragnar and Runa. That was intentional. I didn't want it to be just Erik talking to himself or Stormbolt all the time. As much as I love those moments, too much internal monologue can wear thin, and Erik needed other people to interact with. Not just for pacing—but for growth.
But I also didn't want to throw in meaningless side characters. That's why both Ragnar and Runa have their own roles and, more importantly, their own dragons—because what's the point of being in this world if you don't get your own scaled death-machine best friend?
Ragnar rides a Thunderous Lullaby, a hybrid between a Deathsong and a Skrill.
Runa rides a Creeping Ire, a fusion between a Whispering Death and a Night Fury.
These hybrids were inspired by the amazing work of Asc1dian, who I came across on Pinterest. Their dragon designs are some of the best I've seen in fan spaces. They actually look like hybrids—not just Night Furies with an extra horn or a color swap. They've also created the Stormwraith (Skrill + Night Fury), which inspired Stormbolt's concept and design.
Now, onto the elephant in the room: the system. Some of you may be wondering why I let Ragnar and Runa know about it, especially when most system stories keep that tightly under wraps.
Here's my honest take: It's my fanfic. I'm writing a story where I want the characters around the MC to have real depth and agency—not just be background decorations. Runa knows because she's mute, and Erik had to communicate with her through non-verbal cues, which eventually led to her learning more. Ragnar knows because… well, let's be honest. He's too loyal and too stupid to understand the full implications. But he's also Erik's bro. And that kind of trust matters.
So no, Erik isn't going around broadcasting his powers. The system's still a secret to the wider world. But he's not alone anymore. And that matters too.
I'll include the updated list of Erik's stats, achievements, major quest completions, and new titles gained during the year-long timeskip, just to help you all stay caught up.
Thanks again for reading—whether you're new or have been here since the beginning. The next part's where the real storm starts rolling in.
[Status]
Name: Erik
Race: Human
Gacha Tickets: 130
Strength: 60
Vitality: 65
Intelligence: 54
Dexterity: 63
[Quests Completed]
[Quest: Hatch the Egg]
Climb the tallest mountain on the island.
Rewards: +20 Gacha Tickets, +5 Dexterity, Skywraith Saddle
[Quest: Kill the Common Four]
Hunt and slay a Gronckle, Deadly Nadder, Hideous Zippleback, and Monstrous Nightmare.
Rewards: +20 Gacha Tickets, +5 Strength
[Quest: Sea Serpent?]
Track and kill a Scauldron in open waters.
Reward: +10 Gacha Tickets, +3 Vitality
[Quest: Hunters Become the Hunted]
Turn the tables on the dragon hunters—raid and dismantle one of their main operations.
Reward: +20 Gacha Tickets, Formula for Dragon-proof Metal
[Achievements Unlocked]
[Achievement: Thor's Blessing]
Be struck by lightning while hatching a Skywraith.
Rewards: +50 Gacha Tickets, Electricity Immunity, Lightning's Sigil
[Achievement: Raise a Dragon]
Successfully raise a dragon from hatchling to fledgling.
Reward: +30 Gacha Tickets, Lesser Fire Resistance
[Achievement: Hunter of Wings]
Slay five unique dragon species.
Reward: +20 Gacha Tickets
[Skills Acquired & Developing]
Skill: Riding 5/10
Mastery of flight begins in the saddle. Increases balance, control, and synchronization with a mount. Higher levels allow for evasive maneuvers, high-speed riding, and combat effectiveness while airborne.
Skill: Husbandry 2/10
Improves care, feeding, and training of animals and dragons. Allows recognition of behavioral cues and basic bonding techniques. Future levels grant access to specialized breeding and exotic species care.
Skill: Sewing 3/10
Craft clothing and gear from scavenged materials. Higher levels reduce crafting time and increase durability and comfort of outfits. Later levels unlock armor weaving and fabric enchantment compatibility.
Skill: Teaching 1/10
Allows you to pass on knowledge to others more effectively. Reduces explanation time and improves lesson retention in learners. Higher levels unlock multi-person teaching and training session bonuses.